


Dangerous Liaisons

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 04, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 02:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14227554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Kept in medical after sustaining her injuries, Joan Ferguson receives a visit from Wentworth's current Governor.





	Dangerous Liaisons

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all your kind comments. I promise that I'll get to them soon; I've been preoccupied with projects and the likes. I decided to write this fic in past tense rather than present.

An immense quietude, save for the flipping of pages, fell over the medical unit. The room was cramped and confined with four, tight walls closing in. It was arguably worse than a prison cell in H block, but Joan Ferguson withstood the petty victories of her rivals.

 _If_ Vera Bennett could even be considered such.

Close to her chest, she cradled her wounded arm. After sustaining the burns, she was confined to medical for “sanitary purposes” or so that simple-minded nurse believed. Foolish Mr. Stewart had parroted the same though Joan knew the game.

Governor Bennett’s aim was to detain her.

While Joan might have been a beast of a burden to her lost disciple, she understood that Vera’s guilt laid within her crippling ineptitude. She had hoped for stronger, bolder leadership.

What a complete and uTTer disappointmenT.

Her tongue traveled along the roof of her mouth.

A manicured nail followed the lines that Michael Punke had written: _He hated the lack of control, the demonstrable weakness in a moment demanding strength_.

She quirked a brow. Hugh Glass’ rage in earlier pages had been palpable. She felt it, tasted it, **related** to it.

Chin up, stormy stare ahead, Governor Bennett walked in with the confidence of her predecessor. Petulantly, Joan ignored her. She chose to bide her time. To sit and wait. To engross herself in Hugh Glass’ revenge that would be placed in God’s hands.

A set of keys rattled in her pocket. So, her jailor arrived.

With Joan, Vera suspected an ulterior motive. Some hidden agenda buried deep inside the spine of the book that rested on her lap. The old Vera still ached to be on that stiff albeit warm lap, instead.

Miss Bennett tilted her head. The bright, blinding lights illuminated the grey that intensified since Joan began to work at Wentworth. She let her hair down, Vera noted. It made her look softer, more vulnerable somehow.

Wide, doe’s eyes lacked innocence. They were harder, but still remarkably sad. _Pathetic_ , Joan thought.

Vera lowered her gaze. She spied the purplish, red glow of a sunset stretched across a snowy landscape. _The Revenant_ closed shut. Joan folded her long, lithe legs – one after the other. The hem of the dress shifted upward, exposing her thighs. Vera's distracted gaze wandered. Joan moved with poise and purpose, one of Daedalus’ statues come to life.

Her wounded, bandaged hand cannot – could not – make a fist. The gauze was too restrictive, the pain (while manageable) became a  minor disturbance. So, her arm hung limply against her chest and the scratchy fabric of the hospital gown. With her bones encased in angry, red flesh, it was as if her arm became a reliquary.

It hardly made Joan a saint.

“Come here,” she said. Joan was not a body set in constant notion. Ever patient, she waited for the opportune moment to strike.

Vera didn’t budge.

The lemming learned, after all.

This wasn’t a story about a marquise and a viscount, but it was a case of sick, twisted, emotional entanglement.

“Have you gotten what you wanted, Vera?”

This time, Vera opened her mouth. Her tongue clicked. Cotton filled it. She wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a response despite the anger simmering in her belly. Her hands formed fists, hidden by her trouser pockets.

“You’ll never get out of here, Joan.”

It was Vera’s turn to bait and goad. To spit back what she’d been taught, what she’d been sold.

The slightest disturbance caused Joan’s thin, pursed lips to twitch. She occupied her good hand by picking imaginary lint from the white garment. Calmly, Joan raised her proud, indignant head. She handled her speech with skilled precision. 

“Vera, you’re as trapped as I.”

' _Come_ _here’_ didn’t need to be repeated. Regardless of their reversed roles, Vera would always come.

She stepped closer to the fire, the spiked tongue, the barbed wire words. She lingered just out of reach. Her jaw grew tense. Joan had been a remarkable mentor. Because of her, she learned how to stop crying.

She had such a cold smile.

Like Vera’s own reflection, she wished that she hadn’t seen it.

“I was never enough for you,” Vera alleged. _Accused_. Whispered in scathing indignation fused with white, hot agony. Joan was like a wound that never healed. She cut and she cut and she **cut**.

_Not true._

In her lust for revenge, Joan could not refute the claim.

It always started like this.

Vera didn’t resist the siren’s call. At the edge of the bed, she fell to her knees. She knew that they would bruise, but she didn’t care. She had far greater concerns. With a prison to run, she couldn’t focus on her own needs. Here and now, Joan presented escape. Joan represented a skewed sense of freedom.

The Devil cast aside her novel. Set it on the sterile nightstand by her hairbrush.

She did what she knew best: she _hurt_ people.

In a vise-like grip, Joan grabbed her by the jaw. Gradually, she loosened her hold. Her palm fans across her throat which tightens. Rose petal lips trembled, as if Vera expected a kiss or another pill to swallow. She inspected fragile goods. She savored the hummingbird flutter of her pulse. It sent a pool of warmth into her lower abdomen.

“What a limited imagination you have,” Joan tutted. “You’ll always be a bit… vanilla.”

With an impassive expression, she spoke to their past history – how muddied it was, embedded in midnight decisions and post-haste delirium snuck in fleeting corridors of the prison, in the true Governor’s office.

Her thumb traced along her jawline. Hooded, dark eyes drank in her struggle no matter how minute it might have been. The squirming was a farce, a ruse. A part of Vera felt that she deserved _this_. With a habit for breaking her toys, this cruel deceiver let go. Consider it a small act of mercy.

Smoky and low, Joan let out a laugh.

“Why are we doing this?” She managed to rasp, her voice hoarse from the pressure.

_You should be ashamed of yourself._

Guilt gnawed at her insides. Her stomach cramped.

Even now, Joan offered reason not on a silver platter, but on her lap which she patted.

“You need this,” she remarked.

How could Vera deny it?

“Vera, Vera, Vera. You **came** to _me_.”

Unnecessary emphasis fostered innuendo. And so she did. And so she will. She hated herself for her response.

“Don’t tell me what I already know,” she shot back and swallowed her lonely regret.

Vera climbed onto the cot. The mattress sank beneath their combined weight. In due time, the springs would creak. She laid herself down, stomach flat against Ferguson’s lap. Funny how an ice-cold woman could exude so much heat.

These lies thrived within concrete walls.

By the root, her malevolent maker pulled on her hair. She gritted her teeth while the bun began to unravel.

She wasn’t Caesar. She’d already inflicted her Brutus betrayal. Teeth nipped at her chapped, bottom lip. Vera knew what to expect. She unfastened her trousers. Slid them down to reveal her bronzed thighs and plain, grey panties. It didn’t need to be said.

With a twist of her wrist, Joan inflicted the first smack. The flat of her good palm alternated between each cheek. A pattern developed shortly thereafter: one, two, three. _Squeeze_. It was electric.

“Without me, you feel weak.”

Smack. Rub. Squeeze.

The shocked yelp stifled Vera’s whimper. She loathed to admit what was true. Even here, lying on her stomach, she felt powerful – **needed** in a warped sense.

She was on _fire_.

A slave to the game, her inner walls fluttered. Her panties grew damp. Vera grinded her hips to alleviate the friction.

Lust weaponized, Joan took advantage of the situation. Her pitch-black stare ventured to the brush on the stand beside the bed. With a white-knuckled grip, she reached for the handle. She pushed aside the heinous sight of something so lackluster, so bland, and so visually unappealing.

“More, please, _more_.”

Oh, how Joan would have given it to her, if only to see her weep those sweet Magdalena tears.

At the offense, Vera squeaked. Once a mouse, always a mouse.

Without mercy, the flat end of the brush came down.

Joan continued her tirade, “This empowers you.”

Maybe that sultry, belittling voice excited her most of all.

One-handed, she gave her hell. Pain masked itself as pleasure. Vera felt a throb, an ache, a flood of wetness. In response, her back arched.

She managed to hiss aloud.

“Oh, _fuck_.” 

Vera whimpered. She whined. She vocalized her pleasure and her need. Unable to hold still, she wriggles and hitched her hips higher, desperate for relief.

In retaliation, Joan sunk her nails into that pert behind. Tantalizingly, the handle of the brush trailed along her slit. Her wounded arm hung limply by her side with a soreness that couldn’t be felt by her overwhelmingly numbness.

With a final slap, she cast the brush aside.

“Vera,” Joan began. “Tell me what you need.”

It brought her back to reality.

Pride cast aside, Vera confronted her desire.

“You. Inside. Now.”

Fuck Jake. She used few words to convey the arousal that left her aching and exposed. She was relieved that she couldn’t see that fiendish smirk.

Relief followed. One finger curled inside. Then, two. She panted. Listened to the slick, wet noises of flesh against flesh. It was human. They were human.

And that was all that mattered.


End file.
